Sinking Deep with Sylvia Plath

Welcome to The Weekly Read by Drew Lane, a newsletter for short story aficionados and those curious about literature, music, and the craft of fiction.

This week, we'll be meeting a character who experienced inadequacy to the point of irremediable alienation. Her name is Esther Greenwood and she is the protagonist of Sylvia Plath's novel, the Bell Jar.

Published in 1963, and set in the 50s, The Bell 

 takes us into the world of a brillant teenager who wants to become a writer. A poet, to be more precise. 

The problem is society has other plans for her: becoming a stenographer or a perfect housewife. Esther understands this through a series of incidents that seem comically absurd at first but are concerning once you dig deeper. 

Esther tries to play the game but can only be detached. She observes everything from afar as if she wasn't part of the scenes.

But the more she forces herself into the mould, the more alienated she becomes. 

Things start to escalate during her internship for "Mademoiselle Magasine" in New York, a city where  she "is supposed to have the time of her life". 

There, nothing makes sense. The other interns "are all the same" and the glittery world she accesses is shallow, perverse and sneakily violent. It all culminates with someone trying to assault her at a party.

After this episode, Esther leaves New York and slowly spirals into depression. But nobody cares. 

Or rather, they are more concerned with her not matching society's expectations and spreading shame and confusion around her. 

Esther wishes she could wipe herself out and disappear but her heart keeps beating, and beating, and beating. 

The stubborn beating of her heart - which she hears when she tries to drown herself into the water a couple of times - is one of the 3 symbols of the novel. The two others being the invisible bell jar (obviously) holding her captive, where she feels she stews in her "own sour air", and a fig tree which symbolises the different paths her life could take with its numerous branches.

So many possibilities, yet everything is tasteless.

Through Esther's misery, the book gives us insights

 into the perception and "treatment" of mental health issues back then and how the lack of understanding from doctors and families worsened everything. 

The novel, with its heavy atmosphere, poetic imagery and cynicism, immerses the reader in a world of isolation and apathy as the main character’s hopes for an independent future as a writer vanish and her feelings of inadequacy increase. 

Despite traumatic experiences, Esther demonstrates a sharp intellect and high self-awareness throughout the book. As well as strong racist and discriminatory biases. This raises questions around where and how she choses to apply her critical thinking and why little regard is given to this when celebrating the book today.

Plath’s style gives interesting ideas for portraying characters alienated by society. And, because it doesn’t do it, her book is also a good reminder of what writers can bring to readers by building strong-willed characters who look around and beyond. Who ask « so what? » and « who else? » when challenging the status quo. For although they are isolated, these characters are certainly not alone.

My next short story will of course have something to do with this. In the meantime, I wish you a pleasant week.

The Bell Jar Hung Above My Head

Short Story

Welcome to The Weekly Read by Drew Lane, a weekly newsletter for short story aficionados and those curious about literature, music, and the craft of fiction.

, I'll be sharing a short story I wrote. It has something of a nightmare and something of fantasy. Or perhaps it's all realism. Who knows?

I let you decide for yourself and wish you a pleasant read.

Charlie grabbed two large stones from under the maple tree. He rolled them like dices between his fingers and threw them again at Alicia's window.

Her mother's face popped out of the first floor window.

"Sorry Mrs W., I didn't want to wake you up."

"Who's that?" her husband grunted from inside the room.

"The teacher's son. Licia's tutor, I told you at least five times he gives her classes on Mondays and Thursdays. "

Mrs W. rolled her eyes and pushed her night mask further up her hair as she looked back at Charlie.

"It's urgent Mrs W. I... I wanted to make sure Alicia is okay."

"She's asleep, how about you - ," her husband grunted.

"Shh, will you?" Alicia's mother said to her husband over her shoulder. "Charlie, how about you go to bed too? I'll tell her you came, okay? She'll see you tomorrow after class."

The window glass shook as she closed it and drew the curtains leaving Charlie alone in the silence of their garden with his last stone.

As he approached her window, the entrance door opened and, on the dark porch, Alicia appeared in her rabbit pyjama. Her eyes puffy and red.

"Alicia!" he said running in her direction. "I found your drawing at the library - "

"You know I'm not allowed to go to the library anymore."

She fetched the drawing and ripped it into pieces. Charlie sighed.

"It's not a punishment, Licia, it's just... Give it some time and you'll -"

"The teacher says my stories are just stories. Do you think it's true?"

"Stories? Of course not! The singing lilies, the flying boats in the sky, the dancing vampires. Of course it's all true."

"Then why do I get in trouble each time I mention them?"

"Well. There are some things that... How can I say that... Imagination is -"

"No, of course you're not crazy. You're a bright seven-year-old with a wild, sorry, creative... hm... perceptive -"

"I swear I saw a castle in the river," Alicia said.

"I know, I know. And it's a precious secret you should keep to yourself. You know, for other kids, it's... they can't handle reality just like you do. They get nightmares, they ..."

"You don't get nightmares when you hear my stories."

Alicia lowered her voice and came closer to him, "You need to see the castle, it's magical, I promise. But you have to be cautious. It's scary. Pshiuuuu."

She pretended to cast a spell on him with her tiny hand and Charlie controlled himself not to reply she should improve her grades instead of wasting everybody's time with non-sense.

"I have to study tomorrow evening, Licia."

She frowned and tilted her head to the side, putting her finger on her mouth to feign skepticism.

"Aren't you supposed to help me with my homework tomorrow?"

Charlie sighed. She had been banned from the school library anyway.

The sky was grey on that summer end of day but that was not enough to deter Alicia from visiting the castle buried in the heart of the river.

She walked, determined in her purple short overalls, through the high dry grass that clang onto the hill like straw. Her cap tied to her wrist and two bunches of hair bouncing at the top of her head, she spoke and spoke.

About the castle, the water dragons and the other hideous creatures that crawled in its sticky moats where they used a sophisticated language she still struggled to decipher.

She mentioned their feasts of goose meat, dried fruit and flowing elderflower. The crowns of roses that adorned their heads to conceal the hideosity of their character and their natural inclination towards betrayal and lure.

Never believe anything they say, never take anything they give you.

Through their glass menagerie full of majestic fake animals, through the rose corridors that flesh and dehydrate, through the round entrance, that will confuse you.

Charlie listened with a frown as he didn't know what to reply.

He hardly ever knew what to reply to Alicia and it had always been so, since the first time he had met her on that Monday evening in his mother's classroom, four month ago. Before his biweekly football training, he always studied in his mother's classroom so that she could drive him to the pitch.

But on that evening, he was surprised to encounter a tiny creature in front of the usually empty blackboard of the classroom. Licia stayed after the class to write a hundred times that she would not "tale more scairy storys too other pewpols."

Her mannerisms first amused him but it soon faded as he realised it was not a game she was playing. He observed her as she pushed through the lines with more mistakes, despite her care.

On Thursday, that same week, she still stood on her tiny stool, writing a variant of that same sentence. Charlie took a green chalk, for he thought she might already be overwhelmed with red corrections.

He rectified the sentence and she watched attentively, as if surprised someone had taken the time to show her how to write. Charlie knew his mother's teaching style and knew it was not for everybody. But it had never occurred to him that someone may wrestle with it to that extent. Each week, he wrote in green, each week she copied in white. The more they wrote, the more she trusted him.

But only lately had he started to understand the roots of her lack of attention, and her confusion. Only lately had he noticed how it impacted her dynamics with other people at school. Children and adults alike.

"There, it's right there!" she said pointing her finger at the river down the yellowish hill.

She screamed with excitement as they raced down the hill together, with their arms open and their caps flapping against their bodies. She giggled, triumphant, as he let her win the race.

"The magic gate is right here," Alicia said leading Charlie by the hand towards a spot where grey smoke arose from the river with a smell of rust. "It's the entrance of the river castle."

She kneeled down and bent towards the bubbles that popped on the surface of the river. He imitated her and, although he didn't believe in her castle story, he wondered where the smoke and the rusty smell stemmed from.

"... that's where their feast starts!" she said forming a crown with her short arms and looked up at the sky as if a firework had cracked wild above their heads.

Charlie gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"Talking of what, we should eat Licia," he said standing back up to light a campfire for their marshmallows. "Your brain needs sugar to tackle additions."

Charlie had brought her homework with them, but he didn't mind enjoying the river for a while before diving into them. In fact, it might help her focus on her exercises later on.

As he gathered wood and stones, he could hear her speak to the river and run with open arms, as if she were a plane, or rather a water dragon from the castle moat. He still wondered why she cared only about those stories and so little about normal things, such as friends, makeup or pop songs like "Moi... Lolita". The more she jumped and shouted alone, the lesser hope he had to instigate focus and discipline in her little being.

He dug a hole in the ground and rolled a wooden stick between his palms to ignite a spark. He bent close and lit up the campfire carefully with a soft blow. Smoke arose and he smiled to himself as the fire came to life.

"Licia, look at that!" he said turning around with pride. "Alicia?"

And he shouted with his hands around his mouth.

Save for the steady sound of the bubbles growing and popping in the water where the rusty smoke arose. Charlie approached it - not only had the smoke grown purple, just like Licia's overalls, but it now also smelt of strawberry. Just like her.

Charlie stretched his shaking arm towards the smoke and a magnetic force grabbed his wrist, pulling him down into the river.

The cold water pressured his lungs and bones. As his eyes got used to the dirt and dark of the river bottom, he collected himself and started to look around for Alicia.

He swam, to the right, to the left, circling back to his initial spot a couple of times, in vain. In vain, until he noticed a circular hole that sucked in algae and bubbles.

Charlie swam towards the black cavity and let the tunnel suck him in. As the tunnel narrowed down and the darkness intensified, Charlie realised he might never be able to go back. But it was now too late.

The River Castle

Feeling the Anxiety with Franz Kafka

As you may have noticed, it was based on "inner monologue", i.e. telling the story through the eyes of the protagonist and from the depths of his mind.

This week, I suggest we pay a visit to one of the writers who most explored his mind, fears and nightmares.

Someone who found relief in books and writing, although neither could fix his anxiety.

Someone who brought his inner life to the forefront of literature.

His name is Franz Kafka and the picture at the top of this page is from Prague where he was born in 1883. You can find out more about his life 

Kafka is notorious for writing novels such as the 

, countless short stories and his letter to his father.

His work centres around the themes of powerlessness and arbitrary authority (administration, bureaucrats, judges, etc.), guilt, shame and life absurdity.

What I didn't know and discovered recently as I read his Letter to his Father is how his relationship to his father had fuelled his anxiety and shame.

Well, not so surprising if you take a Freudian approach yada, yada.

But we're note going that route and for a simple reason: Kafka was well aware of his dad's influence - it haunted him.

Danish philosopher Kierkegaard struggled with similar thoughts - although differently - and had a comparable relationship with his father. The common point between the two seems to be a clash between a strong and rigid figure on the one hand and a sensitive, imaginative soul on the other.

 of Kafka and his dad illustrates this well.

In Letter to the Father, Kafka writes it like it is to his dad and explains why he felt small, out-of-place and insignificant around him and how that worsened his already "weak" character.

Kafka disgusted himself, despised himself and felt guilty for it all the way.

And yet, his writing isn't all gloomy or depressing. His wit and knack for mixing the absurd with vivid imagery helped express and convey his despair lightly and effectively.

By taking arbitrary situations to a ridiculous extreme, Kafka gives the reader a chance to see and think about the situation for themselves rather than to dwell on powerlessness with him.

In his stories and novels, the characters end up in situations without understanding how and face obstacles preventing them from getting out.

They find themselves in court, judged and guilty without even knowing what is reproached to them.

They wake up one day in an insect body and can't speak or move.

Or they are stuck outside a building because on the wrong side of the door.

Writing provided a space for Kafka to explore his tormented soul and although he published some of his work in literary magazines while working for insurance companies as a day job, he wasn't planning to publish everything.

He gave his writing pieces to his best friend asking him to destroy them after his death but the friend kept and published the work after 1924 when Kafka died of complications of tuberculosis.

Diaries, letters to lovers (he had quite a few although he never married), manuscripts, and more were hence published and earned him posthumous fame.

They became an echo chamber for readers who related to his feeling of alienation, inadequacy and despair not only because they prevailed at that time of the XX century but also for the versatility, accuracy and imagination with which he depicted them.

For other readers, Kafka was the writer who introduced them to a new approach to the self, with intrigue and wit. This gave birth to a genre and adjective called "Kafkaesque" i.e. any situation that is nightmarishly complex, bizarre or illogical.

Kafka also inspired the next generations of writers, especially those who expanded on the themes of absurdity, fantasy and magic realism, such as Borges, Saramago, Sartre, Camus, etc.

What I find interesting in Kafka's work is the complexity of his thoughts, the variety of emotions he conveys and the worlds he creates in each story to stage nonsense and iniquity.

 is another one, although I haven't read it yet.

I Cannot Even Explain It to Myself

, I'll be sharing a short story I wrote. The title is inspired by a song by Caetano Veloso called "It's a Long Way."

I let you find out more and wish you a pleasant read.

Water dropped from the green pits of the porch on the other side of the door. Right there, by the counter that faced the gleaming lake. Water dropped and dropped just like the clock ticked and ticked in my back.

I wasn't expecting her to show up on time. I wasn't expecting her to show up at all. The dark clouds I had expected, the fog around the inn I had foreseen and even the rain at the foot of the mountain I had imagined.

But her showing up, no. Not even in my wildest dreams. Those that smack me out of sleep, sweating and panting.

She entered the restaurant in her floating dress, her hair soaked with rain. The dress wasn't brown or burgundy, it was plum with a touch of gold. Although I couldn't really tell what kind of touch it was. I was sitting too far, and I couldn't see much from that side of the restaurant. The only thing I can say is that the golden dots hovered on the light fabric like leaves in the wind. As if someone had sprinkled them over her soft body.

I wished I had been able to touch them. Only for a second. But I sat there, watching from afar.

She entered the restaurant, and everything halted. The earth stopped spinning and the fog fell off its suspension outside. Conversations hushed and waiters froze, as if they had all witnessed the golden sprinkles on her dress. Or perhaps her gaze. Half-absent, half-deep.

When she reached the counter, she asked for someone's name. I couldn't hear the name, but I could read it on her lips. I couldn't say whether she enjoyed pronouncing it. But I wished she had. The owner of the inn shook her head and hinted at the table by the window, at the front of the restaurant, and a dull waiter ushered her to her seat.

She sat down at a table for two, rubbing her sleeves with her thin hands, as if to warm up. Perhaps she was anxious, perhaps she was nervous.

She leaned her chin on her hand and she turned her face towards the flatness of the lake, across the window. Her red curls were too thick for me to decipher anything. From where I was, even her reflection in the window was blurred. I took another sip of wine and washed my dry mouth with it.

The waiter asked if she wanted something to drink and she shook her head. It was a slight no, as if she were sacrificing the condensed warmth of a solitary hot chocolate to a joint drink with the person who kept her waiting.

Over my shoulder, another waiter asked if I wanted more cheese with my onion soup and I spilled what remained of my glass of wine on the floor. I hadn't noticed the idiot. He called the kid of the owner to clean the dark spot on the parquet and I urged them to leave me alone. The waiter offered me another glass of wine to apologize, but I didn't even look at him. All I cared about was there, in front of me, in high leather boots and golden sprinkles of longing.

As the kid approached my table with the new glass, I slipped a bill of ten in his tiny hand and asked him to repeat to his mum, the receptionist at the counter, a couple of words. He nodded, and I whispered my message in his ear ...

The receptionist looked in my direction as her son passed on my message and I looked back at my soup, as if I had nothing to do with the news, as if some other customer had come up with that message for the woman in fall colors.

The receptionist frowned, yet walked over to the table that faced the lake and told the woman in plum and gold that the person she had been waiting for had just called to leave a message. They were still on the road, stuck in the rain, but would soon reach the restaurant. She should wait for them.

The woman revealed her square teeth, the smile that gave her face a sophisticated look. Just like that high chin and that thin neck of hers I wished I had been able to stroke. But I was too far for that.

Her smile expressed relief, comfort. She was comforted in knowing that someone was driving down the mountain fighting the rain in their old car but hadn't forgotten her. For some reason seeing her smile made me smirk.

She started playing with her hair and then opened her tiny bag to fetch a mirror and look at her nose in the powder case. I wanted to buy her a drink. Just to see if she would respect the oath to her friend, who was driving down the mountain, and who had said she should wait. I called the boy again and asked him to bring her a glass of wine. If she said no, I could offer her a hot chocolate or pass on a new message...

The boy ran to the kitchen and, soon after, a long silhouette approached her with the glass of wine I had ordered. She raised her eyebrows and looked around with a swift move of her head that shook off the last drops in her curls. I could have bitten those curls and sucked the water out of them. They would smell of lily, for sure, as in the old days.

But I was too far. And my neck too short.

She refused the glass with a polite gesture. The waiter strode in my direction, with the glass, to let me know she had declined. He handed it to me, there, right under the small alcove where I was hiding as if that could change a thing. I glanced back at the onion soup since it seemed her eyes had followed the waiter, trying to figure who had offered her a drink.

But as I looked up from my bowl to avert her gaze and noticed she was still looking through the window.

Of all the scenarios I had come up with, of all the stories I had written aloud in my head, none of this I had foreseen.

I pushed my chair backwards and my heart shook as it rubbed the wooden floor.

I hated the noise the stick made as it hit the floor. I hated how the few customers in the inn looked at me and my leg and then away as if to give me peace.

I hated myself at that very moment for orchestrating that situation.

And I pushed one leg and dragged the other in her direction, as if to humiliate myself more.

Her eyes landed on me just as I reached her table. Her absent gaze snapped into reality when she saw the scar that halved my face and my hand on the knob of the stick.

She rose from her chair in silence and her arms encircled my waist.

Her neck smelt of lily and I rubbed my nose into it, slowly.

She looked at me with those eyes of hers that hadn't lost their innocence.

As ever, you're more than welcome to share your feedback and thoughts in comments or to fill in 

It's a Long Way

Redefining Boundaries with Caetano Veloso

To shade you from the summer heat, today I'd like to introduce you to one of the Masters of Brazilian music and one of my favorite singers - Caetano Veloso.

If you haven't recognised his witty face or the album title on this beautiful cover by 

I came across Veloso's music for the first time on an intercontinental flight six years ago.

I was looking for something new and poked at the Bossa Nova playlist hoping it'd do the trick. I curled into my seat while the first song - 

 or Summer Samba, to which this article owes its title - cast its gentle groove.

The song lulled me for the rest of my time in the air (four hours) and the whole of my stay on the other side of the world.

Just like a summer breeze at the end of a quiet day by the beach.

Fast forward a few months and I stumbled upon a trailer for a contemporary dance show by a famous choreographer.

. It was in English but I couldn't grasp the lyrics due to the singer's accent.

The music was called It's Long Way and it was again by Caetano Veloso.

Turns out, Veloso, who was born in the state of Bahia in the Nordeste Region of Brazil in 1942, spent two years in political exile in London. A "dark period" of his life, where he still got acquainted with rock-n-roll and other music styles he would later fuse with Bossa Nova and various Brazilian genres.

Veloso uses powerful chords (guitar, bass) and strings with a variety of drums to build on forceful minimalism at times and elaborate melodies at others.

 is a great example of this, with its strong chords and clear voice at the beginning going crescendo in speed and intensity towards the end.

This song also illustrates how Veloso, a master of metaphors, connects the dots.

Creating unique textures and bringing what Tom Jobim, other Master of Brazilian Music, would call "an intellectual angle" to Brazilian popular music.

One evening at work, I thought I'd dig deeper into his style and listened to a song called 

I pressed play and marvelled at the orchestra in the back. Towards the end, I almost spilled my coffee over my screen.

For those of you who are not familiar with berimbau, it's one of the typical instruments, with atabaque, that is played in capoeira. A chord instrument, it sets the melody and, most importantly, the rhythm for capoeira games.

In Terra (i.e. Earth), out of nowhere berimbaus and atabaques come together to celebrate the Earth, like a beautiful woman.

If you pay closer attention to the lyrics though, it is not so surprising. The song mentions Bahia, where capoeira comes from, just like Veloso.

This makes Terra a moving tribute to Afro-Brazilian music, amongst 

Veloso is a word, music and aesthetics wizard. No doubt many have swooned over his smile and charm, samba movements and arm swings.

But what I think makes him special is his sensitivity to life, people and 

He celebrated beauty, love and passion in many ways and described interestingly the women who swept him off his feet. 

, a woman just like the summer in Samba do Verao or one with

 a kabuki, strong muscles and powerful teeth

His sense for contemplation doesn't stop there.

 which he learnt to appreciate with the years despite its "inelegance and chaotic geometry".

Veloso incorporates the richness of life through seemingly meaningless details in his songs and performances, thereby creating something 

With the years, nothing has changed, only evolved, and we can still find him:

 artists and his music is now a cornerstone of modern Latin Music and Brazilian music in particular.

My next short story will of course have something to do with him and by then, I wish you a pleasant week enjoying his music.

Olha, É Como o Verão

, I'll be sharing a short story I wrote. Similarly to Woolf's characters in Mrs Dalloway and To the Lighthouse, the main character in this short story is afraid of change.

I let you find out what it's all about and wish you a pleasant read.

Eleanor pushed the table against the wall of the living room and threw a white linen cloth over it. She wiped the coffee cups and polished the numbers Brenna had painted in black on each of them to identify which cup was which.

She crawled underneath the table to plug the small hob that would keep the Americano pot hot for the afternoon. Only the velvet cake was missing - judging from the smell floating out of the kitchen, it would be ready soon.

She opened the window and stepped to the side as salt, sand, and pine notes flowed in. The air was fresh and biting, like in every fall of that little town in Nova Scotia.

"Hi, Nora." Brenna entered the living room, her heels hitting the tiles loudly. She liked to call her niece Nora instead of Eleanor. Brenna looked at the table and decorations around the room. "Seems like you've made good progress. Early morning?"

"Don't you go on Thursdays?" Brenna asked, heading to the kitchen to check on the oven.

Eleanor couldn't hide much from her aunt. And yet, over the past four weeks, she had kept her anxiousness secret. Insomnia hadn't struck since she had settled here five years ago, fleeing her parents' divorce and New York's honks. But insomnia crept back up that night. How could it not?

"You didn't reply, Nora." The voice of her aunt echoed from the kitchen.

That was not a smart thing to say. Brenna would now leave the kitchen to collect the mail outside, like every morning, and she would notice Nora's trainers weren't in the corridor. She would tease Nora until she told the truth. This, Nora wanted to avoid at all costs. But Brenna did none of that. She walked back slowly into the room, her eyes glued to a letter.

Brenna was a woman of curves and beauty. She had the allure of actresses that age with character, that grow with their art no matter what the industry throws at them. Her ginger hair waved into a long mass. Her skin had freckles. A line of coal structured her sharp blue eyes. Whether in summer or not, she wore a silk dress with thin straps that unveiled her round chest. In those midi dresses - blue, red or green - she looked like an actress closing a performance night, receiving flowers from anonymous hands. And yet, Brenna was no actress. Brenna was just Brenna.

"There's also a letter for you." She folded her letter and handed Nora a sealed envelope.

Nora's heart beat - in her hand was now her acceptance, or rejection, letter. As much as she wanted to rip the envelope apart and devour its content, she pushed it in the back pocket of her jeans.

"Close that window, will you. It's cold in here." Brenna headed to the kitchen and came back with stalls.

She positioned them in a circle in the middle of the rather empty living room. She fetched three boxes of paint tubes from the wooden cabinet. Nora understood she should leave her aunt alone. She moved on to their weekly ritual - preparing the living room for the live model class of the afternoon. Nora grabbed three pedestals and set them between the stalls to carry the paint tubes.

"It was a letter from the council," Brenna finally said as if hearing Nora's question only now. "No grant for us this year."